shart at the devil

“Here I am, the one that you love, asking for another day” -Air Supply

I’ve tried to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with this blog. I’ve also applied that same thought process to my overall existence and the definitive conclusion is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, period. If I had a name tag it would read “Hello, my name is ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.'” It would go on my tombstone had I not decided to by shot over Lake Superior via giant slingshot, wrapped in dynamite while “The wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is playing. However, that came to me whilst balls deep in my Gordon Lightfoot phase(we’ve all been down that road, right?). I could always change my mind.

I struggled with a sloppy explanation as to why I haven’t barfed into the bottomless pit of the internet as of late. The shit was lame-real cripple. Here is an excerpt:

I know what you’re thinking-“how about some new content, you dirty dick licker?” And you’d be right-you’d be right the fuck on the monkey nuts. “So-you’ve got you’re fancy ass new site and filling it with the same old horseshit you’ve already written? You’re lazier than an old man’s sack in the Arizona sun.”

Well kids, I’m gonna lay some real shit on you. Daddy is depressed. Boom-there it is. “Who farted?” you may be asking. Well, it’s me. I totally farted. Yes, the bitter, lingering fart of depression, toasted by anxiety and absent mindedly abandoned with the all-forgetting power of ADD. “Who farted?” I ask. Who farted, indeed.

Here is how it works. I’m visited by the the California bro that is depression around 2 am. “Hey bro-if I was as hella funny as you, I would slayla the vajayla, like, all dayla. I’d be working the labe like a speed bag with someone holding a bucket for me to spit in. There wouldn’t be a dry pair of panties in the house, son. This shit is wasted on an idiot like you.”

See? I told you I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but you know what? I’ve decided to embrace this non-understanding understanding like a child with a stuffed animal.

So from hear on out I’m going to attempt to barf into the bottomless pit of the internet on a weekly basis which means non-sequiturs will abound and things will alternately get weird, dark, or just plain stupid.

Does anyone ask, “who cut the cheese” or “who beefed” anymore? We all need to start trying to. Our humanity is at stake.



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